


A Short Thing

by What_About_Bugs



Series: Antivan Dalish Walks into a Conclave [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:21:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25861993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/What_About_Bugs/pseuds/What_About_Bugs
Summary: Corypheus has come and gone, but the Inquisition remains. Friends drift in much the same fashion, leaving Skyhold to be kept together by grit and stubbornness on the part of their Herald of Andraste. But time passes, as it is wont to do, and things tend to change whether one wishes it or not.A series of short scenes outlining life and work at Skyhold in the two years between the events of DA:I and Trespasser DLC.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: Antivan Dalish Walks into a Conclave [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875757
Comments: 23
Kudos: 23





	1. Sparring

**Author's Note:**

> some sketches of this Lavellan: https://i.imgur.com/i5pwPsB.png  
> he doesn't have to look like this when you read it but......... this is what he looks like in my mind when i write..... and i need someone to know

“Amatus, I really don’t see the point--” Dorian held the dulled sword limp in one hand, already deflating with a weak sigh. Syrillon put up one of his own to silence him, letting out a string of _ah-ah-ah_ ’s.

“Humour me, love. Just this once.”

“Only _once?”_

“You insist upon running off to Tevinter, leaving me behind and all to my lonesome,” the elf continued, layering on the melodrama. He was gesturing with his free hand, his other gripping his own training blade. “The least you can do is leave me with some peace of mind that you won’t be stabbed to death by assassins, or whatever.” Dorian let out another long-suffering sigh. “Or at _least_ that you could manage a parry.”

He probably could’ve argued. _I won’t carry a sword,_ or, _I’ve saved your life more times than either of us care to remember,_ or perhaps, _I survived in the Imperium for my entire life prior to meeting you._ But still, he kept his mouth shut, raised his blade and stepped closer. He could understand that desperate, awkward itch. The feeling of You’re-Probably-Going-To-Get-Into-Trouble-And-There’s-Nothing-I-Can-Do-About-It. Though, he supposed, in Syrillon’s case, _trouble_ tended to be an enormous, continent-wide calamity. Going home to see his family _probably_ wouldn’t have such a high death count, but there was still plenty of time.

He pulled up his blade just in time to block a quick swing. Their dulled swords met with a _clang_ which blended into the noise of the training yard. There was another strike, then another, then another. Each block wore his arm out a bit more and he was reminded, after each hit, _why_ he enjoyed being a mage.

Ah, but that look of fierce concentration. His opponent, brow set tight, seemed to watch his every move as if he were prey. It probably shouldn’t have been so mesmerizing to watch, given that those were the eyes of the man currently swinging for him. A hit wouldn’t cut, probably, but he’d surely sport an especially intense bruise should it land.

“I can’t help but feel like you’re going easy on me,” he said, partway to teasing, when they broke for a short rest. The Inquisitor wicked the sweat from his brow using his tunic. Dorian took the opportunity to give him a shamelessly debauched once-over as he waited, soothing his breaths, for the sparring to be over.

“Am I?” The elf drawled, putting on a sideways smile. It shook free any of that careful tension he’d held not moments earlier. He played it off easily, as if Dorian hadn’t seen him take a man’s head off in one swing, or some such gruesome nonsense. “Hadn’t noticed. Come, let’s do one more. Perhaps you’ll win out.”

“I’d doubt it,” Dorian murmured, “sore loser.”

“What’s that?” Syrillon asked, expectant, as if he hadn’t heard. Dorian put on a smile and took up his stance once again. He could feel a bead of sweat run down his back from beneath his woolen shirt. It was too much of a frigid shithole to wear anything much lighter, but the sparring and the hot sun hanging above them was more warmth than he was used to, these days.

“Swing for me.” The elf ordered. Dorian stepped in, trying for a strike. It was deflected with a half-hearted _tink._ “Come _on,_ you can do better than that.”

“I can, can I?” Dorian asked, giving another thick sigh. A small frown crossed Syrillon’s lips for just a passing moment. The elf gave another gesture, waving him in.

“Again. Use your hips, like I’ve shown you.” Oh _yes,_ he could remember _that_ lesson. He’d paid so much attention he hadn’t learned a single thing. He supposed _this_ was the natural punishment for making eyes at his temporary instructor.

He tried the strike once more and, to his surprise, Syrillon took it. He stumbled into a roll onto his back. Dorian might’ve celebrated his meager victory, if the elf had made any move to deflect. It was obvious, as well as a mite endearing, how easily he’d been allowed to win their short match.

“Oh, no,” Syrillon drawled, tossing his sword away limply. He splayed out on his back, a childish grin already sprouting. “You got me. How embarrassing; I’m _entirely_ at your mercy.”

“What’ll I ever do?” Dorian sighed, dropping his sword, as well. Finally, it was over. Thank the _Maker--_

“Excuse me, my Lord,” Syrillon continued, lifting his limp arms to make grabby hands, “if you would be _ever_ so gracious as to help me to my feet…?” There was something like a botched Tevinter accent in his tone.

“I suppose.” Dorian sighed. He gripped the other man’s hands and hoisted him up. Syrillon stumbled into him, overplaying a bit of clumsiness.

“My, what a strapping young man,” he said, suppressing a laugh, as he gave Dorian’s arm an appraising squeeze. “Do you come here often?”

“I try not to.” Dorian replied, enjoying the complimentary touching and all the generous praise coming in a string. Seemingly regaining himself, as if from nothing, Syrillon wound his arm around his waist. They were both damp with sweat and probably stank, but the elf didn’t seem to care.

“Could I walk you home?” He asked, still grinning boyishly.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, putting up a flippant hand, “I’m with someone.” He pulled away, leaving Syrillon to falter behind by a step.

“Wh--hey.” The elf whined, partway to another laugh. He jogged up a few steps to come back to the mage’s side. “You did good, you know. I’m proud. Let’s assume I did all that, hey?”

“Well, of course. Naturally.” Dorian replied, a gleaming smile worming onto his lips. He did always have a soft spot for praise, even if it wasn't earned.

“Tomorrow, again?” Syrillon asked, testing the waters. It seemed more teasing than anything. He wasn’t going to risk it.

“No, thank you. My quota for sparring far out of my depth is quite full.”

“What? You did fine. Come on, one more?” Dorian took a bump to his shoulder. “I’ll show you some special moves. Some of the _really_ helpful stuff.” It was entirely flirtatious bluster, but it made him consider it for a second longer than it should have. Damn him!

“I’ll think about it.” Dorian replied. Upon spotting another boyish smile, _“don’t_ get your hopes up. I can’t stand it when you’re disappointed, it’s terrible to watch.”

 _“Oh,_ alright.” Syrillon sighed, “you’ll get off easy this time.”


	2. Omelette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all ever have the gold kiwis you can eat whole? Love those things

Syrillon rested his chin on his fist, watching with subdued interest as the Altus did his best to lord over the stove. He gave the thick iron skillet a gentle flick, aided by the tool in his other hand. The sheet of egg landed with a wet  _ smack  _ as it hit the pan. A small amount fell into the fire and the elf, pursing his smile away, pretended he hadn’t seen it.

“You’re getting better,” he said, feet kicking idly. The wood stool creaked beneath him as he leaned back, sending Dorian an encouraging smile.  _ “Very  _ multi-talented.”

“Perhaps we’ll even be able to eat something, this time,” Dorian drawled, “how marvelous.”

“Come, don’t be sour.” Syrillon chided, “trying new things is good for you.”

“So long as you’re already proficient at it.” Dorian added.

“Quite! That’s what you’re doing right now. Good job.” The elf slid a plate towards the other side of the wood countertop with just the tips of his fingers. “Go on, set ‘er free. I have faith in this one.”

“Too much, if you ask me, but that’s your prerogative.” The ugly-looking omelette shuffled out onto the plate before its skillet was placed unceremoniously back where it started. Syrillon offered up a fork as he cut a piece with his own, speared it, and then took a bite. The egg was beyond chewy and the  _ salt-- _

It was… a lot. He could feel himself shriveling up like a sad slug and he fought to not show it. Dorian had worked so  _ hard  _ and he looked, visibly, defeated. Though, in comparison to what had come before, this was  _ much  _ better. Edible, even. Syrillon swallowed it down and gave a small nod.

“Your thoughts…?” Dorian asked, taking a bite for himself. He seemed… miraculously unaffected.

“I’m impressed,” Syrillon replied, choosing his words carefully, “you’ve improved a great deal. I’m so proud I could start weeping.” Dorian gave a long, continuous nod and took another tiny bite of what he’d made.

“As you said, I’m multi-talented.” He set down his fork.

“Just incredible.” Hopefully his ego wouldn’t get  _ too  _ big.

“Still tastes like shit, though.” Ah. There it was. Syrillon let out a guilty laugh and gave a little nod.

“Yeah,” he replied, stretching it out. “Yeah, it’s a bit much.”

“Do you think Sera would eat it?”

“Oh, probably.”

“Well, thank goodness. Poisoning one’s leader-slash-prophetic hero is typically considered bad form.”

“But poisoning the local bottomless pit is no big thing.” Syrillon took up the plate in one hand.

"Whatever else would a pit be for?" He cracked the door to the courtyard, pressing it open with his hip. Dorian stayed lingering by the wooden counter.

“Right, right. Steal whatever food you’d like; Inquisitor’s orders. You’ve earned it.”


	3. Reading

“Her… la...” Syrillon trailed off to send a droopy-eyed, suspicious squint towards the page. Dorian sat beside him, though he had one arm around his shoulders to hold up the other half of the book. It left the elf with nothing to hold onto except his fingers with which he fidgeted. “Lach-ry...” He murmured again. “Alright, I’m tapping out.”

“Why’s that?” Dorian asked, lukewarm.

“Why do you think?” He replied, an embarrassed flush burning his ears. “I’m getting impatient. Why’d they put so many words in it that don’t have a thing to do with the plot? That’s a waste of energy.” He folded his arms huffily over his chest.

“Come now, don’t be bitter,” Dorian chided, “you’re nearly halfway through the thing.” Syrillon let out a displeased grumble.

“Ridiculous,” he murmured, “why should I‘ve to learn? I’ve a perfectly good reader right here,” he gave the Altus a pointed pat to his chest by the back of his hand.

"Now, now, amatus. It's good to learn new things."

"Mm. Long as you already know 'em, right?"

"Right."

“It’s… lach-ry-mose. Never heard of it, but she’s got it.”

“Hurrah,” Dorian hummed, “go on, keep going.”

“Her lachrymose… awh, fuck.” Syrillon let out a tired laugh and pinched the bridge of his nose. He read and re-read the word a few times before venturing an uneasy, “countenance?”

“Quite.” The elf’s expression lit up with a gleaming smile.

“Aren’t I great at this,” he bragged, wry, “soon I’ll be reading everything. There’ll be no stopping me.”

“We should’ve done this sooner. You might’ve found a way to weaponize it.”

“Still could. I’ll help route the Venatori with my literary prowess.”

“Well, look at you,” Dorian drawled, “for a moment, you sounded just like me. Thought perhaps I was having an out-of-body experience.”

“Yeh, yeh,” Syrillon muttered, giving him a dismissive wave, “so, her lachrymose countenance, right?” Dorian gave a small nod. “It was lit up in blues and greens by the sun-light shin-ing through the half-empty glass bottles.”

“Was it, now?”

“Mm-mm.” Syrillon replied, giving a grave nod. He focused back on the book once more, “He could catch a glimpse of her… ‘s that say virgin?” His voice pitched up an octave with the puzzled-sounding question. Dorian supplied another nod, earning a warped frown. “Fuckin’ weird, but alright. Her _virgin-al_ pin-a-fore. Not heard that one.”

“It’s a dress.” Syrillon let out a long sigh. “Yes, yes, _why can’t they just say dress,”_ Dorian drawled, doing a half-hearted imitation of the other man, “it sounds dramatic, my dear, as always.”

“Orlesians.” The elf chewed up the word and spat it out past his bitter frown.

“Prose.” Dorian corrected, “go ahead and finish the paragraph.”

“He could catch a glimpse of her virgin-al pin-a-fore from where he clung to the garden es-pa-lier. Rose thorns bit into his fingers and palms as he watched her, be-witched, wai-ling with the mid-summ-er fowl.” He ended with another short sigh, though this one was more relieved. “Bit rude,” he murmured, “to stand around, watchin’ ‘er cry. _Peepin’,_ no less.”

“It’s supposed to be romantic.”

“It’s _weird,_ is what it is. You know what’s romantic? _Not_ climbing for a better look at someone bawlin’ their fuckin’ eyes out in the privacy of their own room. If he wants to win her heart, he should go out and buy ‘imself some common sense. Handkerchief, even, if he’s gonna’e be breakin’ and entering.” Dorian let out a weak laugh.

“Quite.”

“No, tell me, what would you do if you saw someone trespassed in your garden to get a better look at you fuckin’ weepin’? I’d not fall in love with the twat, I’ll tell you that one for free.”

“I’m _sure_ we simply can’t relate,” Dorian replied, soothing the book closed. He reached to set it on the bedside table, “have you ever sat in a lofty bedroom in a virginal pinafore?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Exactly. You wouldn’t understand.” The mage put up a teasingly flippant hand, which was smacked away.

“I think we should try another book.”

“What, _again?”_

“Before you get on my case,” Syrillon tutted, putting his hands up in lukewarm defense, “hadn’t realized there were so many genres of romance. This one being… _felonious-acts-for-no-good-reason.”_

“Well, whose fault is that?”

“Not _mine,_ certainly,” Syrillon chuckled, “anyway, I can give it another try. One more blunder and that boy’s out, though, I’m tellin’ you now. Doesn’t matter if his dad’s a cobbler wit’ _such_ decent character, he’ll not be makin’ me a buyer of his sob-story.”

“Had I known you’d be so passionate, I might’ve tried for one of the worse books I’ve read.” Dorian mused.

“Maybe it’s the problem with romance,” Syrillon said, “we could try for… adventure, or something. Here’s my theory,” he wriggled to lay on his side, facing the other man, “I’ve just got higher standards. Can’t read about a perfect love story when it’s not going’t match up to the real thing.” He suppressed a cheesy, toothy smile.

 _“Alright,”_ Dorian sighed, “yes, very sweet, amatus. You’ll get away with your impatience this time.”

“Should’ve tried that one earlier,” he murmured, letting his smile bloom.


	4. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the parents except instead of parents it's the older brother. Older sister coming soon to a chapter near you!

Syrillon wicked the sweat from his brow with his grubby tunic sleeve. He dropped his training sword with a clatter, offering a hand to his sparring partner. Dorian propped his chin onto his fist. He watched from his alcove window as the elf pulled his sibling to his feet, helping him brush off the dirt and dust. His expression had warped into a good-natured grin at the drop of a hat.

That was… Yevan, wasn’t it? They’d never been formally introduced. Dorian knew him more as the familiar stranger who’d come by his table at the tavern to chat, seemingly spurred by nothing, though there was a hint of _knowing_ to him that the mage couldn’t quite place. It was no surprise, then, that his friendly, half-cautious chatting was an act of… something. Brotherly care; ensuring Syrillon wasn’t being seduced by an evil Tevinter spy, perhaps, as so many worried. Or else simply testing the waters. Either way, he’d bought him a drink and left him be after a short while. He was a decent enough sort in Dorian’s purview.

A tiny, bundled-up figure--who, given a moment, Dorian recognized to be a child--came dashing up and into Syrillon’s legs. Their stubby little arms wrapped tight around his knee, which was at about shoulder-height for them. Amused surprise creased the elder elf’s brow. He dipped down, untangling the small arms, and then lifted the child up to be carried close to his chest.

It was a marvel, Dorian found, how Syrillon always knew just what to do with a child. He supposed he had more practice than himself; Dorian had no siblings or other relatives he cared to relate to. By the time he’d graduated from his teenage ennui, everyone around him had already matured. At this point, if a child came running up to him, he’d probably just clumsily shoo them along to someone who knew better.

Someone called his name and reluctantly, Dorian pulled away from the window. The tender show faded from view, though the white noise of the training yard continued, more distant. He was tugged back to his work desk with another assignment, but his mind lingered on his Inquisitor-watching.

The tavern, for the most part, was lightly-populated. Strange, given it was already evening and the Herald’s Rest had been stuffed full not two nights before. Dorian wasn’t going to wonder too hard; a blessing was a blessing. He’d been intent upon poring over a single glass of something moderately expensive, given his fuller coinpurse now that Varric wasn’t around quite so often. When he looked around, however, he found Syrillon sitting at one of the tables. Yevan sat at the side perpendicular, and a young boy--perhaps the one from that morning?--sat on his knees on the chair to Syrillon’s right.

“What a charming picture,” Dorian drawled, passing by, “a lovely family dinner.”

“Care to join?” Syrillon offered.

“I’d hate to impose.” His gaze wandered more towards the elder brother, this time.

“No, please, sit.” Yevan invited, “Syr’s been talkin’ my ear off about you all day. Could do with someone else trying it.” His gaze was intimidatingly ardent. Dully, Dorian wondered if he’d earned his ire, somehow, or if this was what he was always like. He hoped for the latter. Tentatively, he was pressured into the chair across from Syrillon, who grinned quietly to himself.

“Can I get you something? My treat.” Yevan offered.

“No, that’s quite alright.” Dorian replied, putting on a tight simper.

“Get some Rivaini spiced rum. maybe a glass of that funny red wine. You know the one,” Syrillon instructed. Attentively, Yevan stood to approach the bar. Once his back was turned, Dorian shot his lover a tight frown.

“It’s better to appease him.” He supplied.

“Perhaps when I _know_ him, certainly.” Dorian replied in a murmur, his voice tight. There was that familiar tension of being at something like a family dinner, despite how casual it was. The nervous itch of _please like me_ hung over him and it was an old friend he was determined to ignore.

“I want more, da’sa,” came a whine from the boy seated to the one side of the table. Syrillon’s gaze was off him for a moment, so Dorian took the brief interlude to stew. He watched, contemplative, as that same sweet smile took up residence. Syrillon pushed a bit of the food off his plate and onto the boy’s, suddenly doting. When was the last time he had to concentrate so hard on getting someone to like him? On not blundering it, somehow? He’d gotten so used to writing off other people’s opinions.

“Use your napkin, da’ean,” Syrillon instructed, soft, plucking the item from its crumpled place on the table, “you’ll make a mess.” He held the wad of cloth out between two fingers. There was a pattern to it--something stitched into the fabric, though the dye of the thread was faded--which was warped when the boy took it in one clumsy fist. He rubbed at his mouth, wiping away a smear of food.

Yevan’s return was punctuated by a small flagon and a few glasses set down upon the table top. He took his seat once more, pushing the full glass of ruby red in Dorian’s direction.

“You’re a wine man, I take it?” He asked.

“When it suits me.” Dorian replied. He took the glass in one hand, playing it casual, even if he was still tense with nerves. Syrillon’s attention was released once more and he poured himself a small glass of the dark amber-coloured rum. A foot touched his shin, barely a tap, and he had to resist the impulse to jolt. Syrillon leaned back, drink in hand, and offered him an encouraging smile from behind his glass. That tip of a boot returned, running along the inside of his calf. It didn’t traipse so far as to be inappropriate, thankfully, so Dorian merely took it as a small affection.

“You’re clan leader, aren’t you?” He ventured, a little uneasy in the subject. Syrillon had answered each of his questions, certainly, but there was always the nagging worry that he’d say the wrong thing. Worse, still, when anything he said could be taken as an unkind euphemism. People just seemed to _assume_ things about him quite easily, given… _everything._ An Altus was not often seen trying to make polite with Dalish--if ever it’d been seen--but he was determined to make an example. He’d gotten quite good at that!

“That I am,” Yevan drawled, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes were fixed straight on him, though they seemed eternally weary. He propped one arm on the back of his chair and then laced together his hands.

“What sort of things does a clan leader do?” He asked, starting small. Better than making assumptions, anyway.

“Oh, you know. Tend the halla,” Yevan gestured to the partly empty, halla-less tavern, “scout the wilderness,” another vague, sarcastic gesture, “sometimes we’ll join in the hunt for food.” He nodded his head towards Syrillon’s cleaned-off plate. The joking was familiar, but Dorian was tense with the growing worry that it was at his own expense. Genuinely, it was getting difficult to tell.

“They’ll tell people what to do.” Syrillon added.

“Not unlike the Inquisitor. Though you’ll never see me wearing that starched monstrosity you’ve got hidden away in your dresser. What were they thinking?” Yevan laughed, lips pulling into an almost heart-shaped smile.

“I don’t think it was their first choice,” Syrillon replied, “I’m choosing to give them the benefit of the doubt, anyway. The trousers are comfortable.”

“Oh, _that_ monstrosity,” Dorian drawled, taking a sip of his wine. It was cloyingly sweet and had an odd aftertaste. Orange, perhaps? Yevan let out a delighted laugh, which he considered a personal victory.

“You’re lucky to have had a set of clothes with you, I think. What would everyone say, seeing you walk around in your pyjamas all day?”

“Probably something incredibly dignified, like usual. The insults usually come under the breath,” Syrillon ran a hand through his messy hair. There was a scraping sound as the young boy to the one side of the table pushed out his chair. A few tapping footsteps followed, then he reappeared on the Inquisitor’s lap, one pudgy thumb in his mouth. Syrillon put an instinctive hand at the boy’s shoulder.

“I’d never insult you under my breath,” Dorian said, bothering to look a bit offended, “I’d say it to your face and you know it.”

“True enough.”


	5. Sister

Dorian was really trying _very_ hard to concentrate on his reading. Honestly, he was. But there was just _something_ wrong. Perhaps there was a draft? Or maybe there was a gap in the stuffing of his chair? It could’ve been that the library was dustier than usual. It took a great deal of wondering to realize that it was the incessant _pitter-patter_ of tiny footsteps. He was quite sure that Tara had gone home, already. So what exactly was he hearing? Was Sera fooling around in the rafters?

He’d read the same page thrice-over, now, and he’d not taken in a single word of it. He set his book down with a huff, knowing, with some resentment, that he was likely the only one bothered enough to do something about _whatever_ the racket was. He stepped, tentative, out of his alcove. He sent a wary glance around the rotunda. Nothing. The tranquil, as per usual, as well as a few other researchers and scouts. All of them browsed quietly, keeping to themselves.

There it was again! It was tiny, distant footsteps; he was sure of it, this time. He followed the sound to the far door. To his surprise, it seemed to be right on the other side. Carefully, he cracked it open. What used to be Vivienne’s study was just through the archway, sitting abandoned and undecorated. It was the bed and a few chairs and nothing else. The answer was not yet at hand. Huffily, Dorian closed the door at his back and stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the main hall. This also laid mostly empty, given it was mid-day and the Inquisitor wasn’t around.

Then, he saw it. The balcony doors weren’t open, given Vivienne wasn’t at Skyhold these days, but in what little light filtered in through the glass, he could see a figure. It was short and quick, running circles around the furniture and then hopping up and around the pieces. He drew a bit closer, brows fixed tight.

“Excuse me?” He called. There was a tiny gasp. Something, or someone, came dashing out from underneath the barren bed. It was… a child. Once they’d drawn close enough, Dorian could make out pointy ears and too-wide eyes.

“Floor’s on fire,” the child informed, partly out of breath. His voice was slurred and almost whiny, in that way toddlers seemed to speak. The Dalish accent clearly didn’t help the little boy to fit his mouth around the words.

“Pardon?” Dorian asked, still a bit miffed. The boy came to stand both his little feet on top of the mage’s, thick fingers finding a grip in one of the grooves along Dorian’s boot.

“Floor’s fire,” the boy repeated, “can’t touch it.” Dorian glanced around. The entire upper floor was otherwise abandoned. A child this young would’ve been supervised, wouldn’t they…?

“Right,” he drawled, “quite the predicament.” He let out a weak sigh. Perhaps if he played along, he wouldn’t have to shake the child off. That would probably come back to bite him, maybe literally. He walked awkwardly towards the undressed bed, the boy’s arms wrapping tight around his knee. Once close enough, the boy scrambled off to stand atop the bare mattress.

“Where are your parents?” He asked weakly. The boy started to hop, aided by the bouncy surface underfoot.

“Donno.” The boy replied, “ha’sa said wait by the stairs but she didn’t come back so I went up.” The words were garbled and awkward, but Dorian got the gist. The boy made grabby hands in his direction. “Up.” He demanded.

“Excuse me?”

“Up,” the boy repeated, more insistent. He jumped a bit. Oh. Dorian floundered for a moment.

“No?” He ventured. The boy let out a frustrated whine that only grated on his nerves. “Now, none of that. I’ll not be listening to it.” Surprisingly enough, the boy crossed his arms and grew grumpily silent.

“Come, you can walk.”

“No.”

“Yes, you can.”

 _“No._ Floor’s on fire.” Dorian let out a long-suffering sigh and looked around.

“Right. Where _isn’t_ the floor on fire?” The boy pointed one finger to the main hall. Perhaps the boy’s caretaker would be close by.

 _“Alright,”_ Dorian murmured, mentally rehashing the time Syrillon had coached him through holding an infant. This wasn’t exactly the same, but it was only for the walk down the stairs. Hopefully. He plucked the boy up and, with more wrestling than he was accustomed, started to carry him towards the stairs. He settled for slinging the boy over his shoulder as he made the descent. By his laughter, it seemed the child was enjoying being treated like a sack of turnips.

“Well, the floor’s suitably uncombusted, here.” He announced once they’d met the ground, setting the boy back down on his feet. “Come, let’s find where you’re meant to be.” His beckoning wave worked against him when the boy grabbed two of his fingers to hold onto as they walked.

The young boy led the way, for the most part. He pointed out various things in the hall, staking his claim to them or providing some sort of anecdote in what was mostly childish gibberish. Dorian hummed and hawed and provided varying degrees of shock for his own bare amusement.

Once they stepped out into the midday sun, the child’s tugging became more insistent. Soldiers and workers moved every which way, all on their own mission. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be anyone looking for the child. Dorian was led down the winding stairs, then through them, to get to the lower courtyard.

“Ha’sa!” The boy called, a bit whiny. Dorian didn’t join in, but he kept an eye out, given he could see higher than people’s waists. Another call and someone, distantly, seemed to perk up. A young woman draped in robes came forth, having been lingering near the door to one of the far wings. She jogged, weaving through the crowds, until the boy could see her. He let go of Dorian’s fingers to go catapult himself into her arms, instead.

“Now, where did you come from?” She asked, sounding a bit flustered. From the vallaslin, Dorian had the feeling she was a Lavellan. She closed in a few steps, hoisting up the boy to hold to her chest in much the same way as he’d seen Syrillon do before. Come to think of it, this could have been the same child.

“Thank you,” she said, addressing Dorian this time. A soft smile crossed her lips. There was something surprisingly calm to her; motherly, even. Her gratitude made him perk up. “I had heard he’d run off. Where did you find him?”

“Near the library,” he replied, “playing on some furniture. No bother, really, just a bit of noise.” Her lips parted in a mute _ah._

“I see. Forgive me, I’m terrible with faces. What’s your name?”

“Dorian Pavus,” he gave a short, polite bow, “pleasure.” She let out a quiet laugh at the display.

“Ah, so _you’re_ Dorian? That makes sense.” His brow furrowed, expectant. She didn’t provide an explanation. “Valaril. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Pavus. Thank you for bringing him back, that’s very sweet of you.”

“Yes, well, all in a day’s work. Slaying demons, escorting children, and what have you. Terribly gruesome work, all of it.”

“I’m sure,” she drawled, one hand soothing over the young boy’s messy hair, “I’ll let you get back to work. Thank you again.” She turned, heading back towards where she’d come. The boy gave him an awkward wave over her shoulder, which Dorian returned.


	6. Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :(

“I heard something terribly entertaining this morning,” Syrillon drawled, pushing his paperwork into meager piles on his desk space. He slipped the long silk wrap from the back of his chair and wound it around his shoulders, not tight enough to block out any cold, though the feeling of it was a comfort. Dorian let out a hum, eyes still focused on his book. It was enough to let the other man know he was listening. “Something about you looking after my nephew.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed tight. He looked up from his reading, trying to not look too like a caged animal. Syrillon was smiling, still, as he climbed into the bed at the other side. A gentle kiss pressed to Dorian’s temple, but he still had to push down the threatening flush of embarrassment.

“He was making a racket,” he explained, aloof, suddenly thankful that he’d taken the time to walk the rowdy child back to where they’d come  _ without  _ making an enemy of them. That would be  _ far  _ more embarrassing to explain. “No-one else was going to do anything about it, like usual, so I took matters into my own hands.”

“Well, thank goodness for that.” Syrillon laid on his side, his usual cheeky smile reappearing as a ghost on his lips. Dorian was  _ positive  _ he could see through him, somehow. It was that adoring look, he supposed, that did him in. “My sister’s been raving about you. Said you’re the most charming man she’s met thus far, though I’m not sure how much of that was her talking you up.” Dorian’s mind stuttered for a moment. His sister?

“Well,” he said, voice a little tighter, “naturally. I am a  _ paragon  _ of charm.”

“That’s what  _ I _ said. Don’t know why she decided to talk you up to  _ me,  _ of all people. Not like I need any convincing.” Syrillon shuffled an inch closer, that curious smile perking up a bit more. One of his hands came to rest, splayed and warm, atop Dorian’s abdomen.  _ Maker,  _ when would he stop getting butterflies?

“I’m pleased to know I made such a good impression,” Dorian said, playing off the giddiness threatening his voice. He was honestly proud--though he wouldn’t admit to it--that his lover’s family held no ill will towards him. Liked him, even, given all their differences. It was an extreme vote of confidence that put him just a little more at ease; like there was one less thing tugging them apart.

“Though, are there any other unidentified family members of yours I should be on the lookout for? Some… great-aunts or second-cousins I ought to endear myself to?”  _ He  _ thought it was a perfectly nonchalant question. Evidently, Syrillon had picked up on his tepid enthusiasm--his master plan--to make his family  _ adore  _ him so it would be harder to walk away. Dully, Dorian wondered when he’d stop trying to chain himself to him. He came up with such things in his sleep; how to keep Syrillon enraptured, firmly planted at his side, despite  _ all  _ the things driving him away (which the elf had already quite carelessly strewn aside as nothing more than I-love-you-because-you-have-flaws, the brat--)

“No, no, I think you’ve got all them covered,” he reassured. That hand still laid at his abdomen, never traipsing lower. It stayed where it was, firm enough to be thoughtful. It was distracting, though still comforting, how the elf continued to put energy into showing him care. Odd, even. It was a silly thing; likely just Dorian overthinking. He couldn’t help but dread the time when those touches, inevitably, would become more careless. Though he supposed he couldn’t complain, so long as they were there at all.

“That boy, my nephew? He’s absolutely enthralled. Thinks your mustache is the most amusing thing in the world.”

“Does he, now?”

“I’m inclined to agree. Though I should warn you,” Syrillon shuffled another inch closer and Dorian, resigning himself to his fate of tender comfort and touching, marked his page and cast his book aside. One long leg came over his, tangling loosely. “He’ll recognize you now, I’m sure of it. You act kind to him again and you’ll be his new adopted uncle.”

“Oh, bother,” Dorian sighed, “I hadn’t realized it was so serious.” Syrillon nodded gravely.

“Hope you’re ready for your name to be comically butchered.”

“No different from your typical Ferelden, though, I suppose.”

“Probably not. Ah, but you’ll get so much practice with children!” Syrillon’s lips pulled into a toothy smile and Dorian had to look away to hold back his own. “Soon, you might just be competent.”

“Now, that’s uncalled for.” Dorian said, doing his best  _ harumph!  _ “I’m already competent. It’s more a matter of whether I’d be allowed to care for the child again afterwards that’s the tricky bit.”

“Be a bit difficult if it were you own child, though, don’t you think?”

“Quite the assumption, amatus.”

“Well, what can I say? Felt like making an ass of us both.” Tight, partly-wary nerves welled in Dorian’s chest. It was  _ quite  _ the assumption. Did he really seem the type to want that sort of thing? To be domestic? Oh, there were so many questions.  _ Did  _ he want to be domestic? How would  _ that  _ work? Was this just a not-so-subtle cue? Did Syrillon have some unvoiced expectations? Could he  _ meet  _ them?

What sort of a father would he be?

“That’s in keeping with your usual, I suppose.” He murmured, a bit more lost in thought. He swallowed his unease as the barrage of questions continued. His chest felt achingly tight. The hand at his abdomen was a bit less comforting, now.

“This would be a terrible place to be a child, don’t you think?” He asked, his hand moving down to rest atop the elf’s. “All gloom and snow. I can hardly imagine.”

“I know a few who’d take exception, but I’ve got to agree.” Syrillon murmured. Now, it was time for the harder part. He’d set out his segue, so now he just had to… lead into it.

“I’m… curious where this goes, you and I. We’ve had a perfectly charming time, just the two of us; perfectly reasonable to keep on this way for the foreseeable future.”

“What, until we’re just two grey-haired fools?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I found one the other day, you know. I choose to think it’s all your fault; all this undue stress you cause me.”

“Oh, but you’d look  _ so _ handsome with a bit of grey hair,” Syrillon’s other hand came up to tap at Dorian’s temple. “Right there, I think. It’d be very dignified.”

“Mm. Naturally. Still, I’d like to keep up the illusion just a while longer.” Syrillon tucked himself in closer, all relaxed save for the hawkish gaze he kept on the mage’s profile. They were silent for a few moments, Dorian being more occupied trying to come up with another nonchalant segue to broach the more serious topic.

“I…” Syrillon spoke up, quiet, “...I like children. They’re amusing, I find, and making a child happy is a great joy.” His fingers flexed--just barely--and he took a small handful of Dorian’s shirt. “But having one of your own is incredibly different. And that…” He cleared his throat, eyes flitting down to his hand. “...I’m frightened of it, I suppose. That I’ll do it wrong. That I’ll do  _ something  _ wrong.” Dorian shifted onto his side, giving his hand a minute squeeze.

“I'd love to have a child of my own, but what if I’m doomed to repeat it?” Syrillon asked, face winding up in honest grief. “I don’t  _ want  _ to make them hurt, but what if I can’t help it?” Dorian wanted to reassure him, first off, when he found his eyes growing glassy.  _ You’re stronger than what you’ve gone through,  _ perhaps. But his own tucked-away fear choked it out, reminding him that it would feel like a lie, regardless of the amount of faith he held. For all their differences, a poor parenting mould was one they held in common.

There were so many unknowns. So many questions without answers, for either of them, and Dorian couldn’t just say  _ I love you, you’ll do alright,  _ and consider them answered. But… they’d never had a role model before, had they? Every day together was another step into the unknown, but they’d never known honest  _ trouble  _ thus far. They’d had differences and problems, but not once had he reconsidered what they had.

They weren’t going to go out and adopt a child at a moment’s notice, this he could ensure. That could be one, two--five--years away, if ever they did. But Syrillon was here, now, biting back shame-wrought tears and Dorian didn’t want to watch it without at least offering some sort of comfort.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, wrapping his arm around his lover and holding him closer to his chest, even as it ached. “We… have no proof, for better or for worse, do we? We could just as easily be the greatest set of parents Thedas has ever seen.” Hands wound tight in his shirt and he could feel it being used to wick away something wet. He had to fight back a sting in his own eyes, if only to save face. For now.

“We could get a dog, even. Live in some grand home somewhere warm. I feel you’d make me the stern one, you imp. You can be so childish, I just know they’d love you.” Syrillon’s shoulders shook, a bit more like laughter, and Dorian allowed a soft sigh of relief.

“I’d be doing the cooking, I suppose,” he said, voice muffled against the mage’s chest.

“Without a doubt. I could read them to sleep, as well, couldn’t I?”

“You’d do a wonderful job; you’re a true talent.” Dorian ran a soothing hand over Syrillon’s grown-out hair, scrubbing every so often at his scalp. He relaxed in his arms, given some lighter chatter. Dorian, with some surprise, found he didn’t mind the more serious conspiracies of domesticity.


	7. Wintersend

To absolutely no one's surprise, the south--and everything contained within--was still a freezing shithole. Had his trip out of the snowy wastes been any longer, Dorian might’ve allowed himself to forget it. Alas, two weeks wasn’t quite long enough. He’d stayed bundled in a cloak the moment he’d crossed the border coming out of Nevarra and, to his chagrin, the seasonable warmth started to fade. Now, he was slowly brought back to the reality of winter in an already-frigid landscape.

He had his tepid excitement to keep him occupied on the long caravan ride, at least. His gift stayed tucked under his cloak at his side, kept secure and warm. He worried his lip and allowed his mind to wander: would it be well-liked? Would he receive something in return? Something lively, perhaps. He rubbed his hands together, salvaging what warmth he could. His breaths were coming as puffs of fog, now. He’d settle for the gift company, at this point. A day spent under the covers, warm, with no responsibility within sight. Yes, that would do just fine.

Skyhold became a looming presence on the horizon not long after he woke some few days into the trip. At first, it was only jagged towers blending into the grey of the outcrops around it. Then, the closer they drew, he could make out the palisades, and then the windows, and then the little flecks of soldiers passing by each one. The caravan crossed the bridge and then, once through the massive front gate, it rolled to a stop.

The ground underfoot felt odd, after so long spent in a vehicle. There were soldiers--or perhaps agents--waiting at the gate for his arrival. They removed his belongings from the caravan and carted them off without so much as a _hello, Dorian_ or _it’s good to see you again._ Not that he was _that_ bitter about it, but… 

He arranged payment with the caravan driver and, lingering at the gate, watched for a few long moments as it shrunk to a dot on the bridge. Skyhold at his back was, as always, quietly bustling. The number of people inside the fortress had dwindled in the past months, what with the demon-business over with and the civil war’s frontiers now partly reclaimed. There were still plenty of traders making their way through, setting up stalls and turning part of the grounds into an open market. He’d have to stop by later, once he’d settled back in.

The small nods of greeting and the tiny flashed smiles were a bit like a welcome-back. Though, he wouldn’t be surprised if a grand majority of people either didn’t notice or didn’t care about his absence. The library didn’t seem to care, anyway, because his alcove was entirely out of order. As if the moment he’d stepped out, he’d been deemed a plebeian and left to pick up the pieces, should he ever return. How charming, to have been entirely brushed off.

The Inquisitor was nowhere to be found. Not that Dorian was doing an especially enthusiastic job of _searching,_ mind you, but he hadn’t been sitting around, waiting for him to return. That made his job a bit more difficult. It was a chore to act coy (and perhaps a bit aloof) when he was the one trailing after the elf like a lost puppy. It was a bit disappointing to not have a welcome party already set up for his return but, rationally, he knew it would only be half-hearted, anyway.

He’d moved onto his quarters, which were blissfully untouched. He soothed his door shut and the silence pressed in. His bags had all been stacked neatly beside his bed, waiting to be unpacked, but he couldn’t bring himself to be productive just yet. He slipped out of his cloak, which he cast onto the bed, and then splayed himself out on the other side. It was the same worn wood ceiling as always. The one he’d been staring up at for some year and a half, thinking about home. Now that he’d returned, it only made that yearning hurt more.

He couldn’t help his mind wandering. It would be so nice to have the best of both these worlds: the company of a select few friends and the comfort of their presence, as well as the warm, fuzzy feeling of _home._ Skyhold was never going to be _homely_ to him--this he knew--but seeing it in his absence made it abundantly clear. Skyhold knew this wasn’t his home, either. They’d carried on as if he hadn’t been there in the first place. It was childish to expect anything else, but it was hard not to. He’d been given so many accidentally hollow promises of _you matter to us,_ and _you belong here,_ so why would he expect anything else?

There was a soft knock at his door and he pulled himself up into a more casual-but-not-travel-weary position.

“Who is it?” He called, wrestling with one of his boots. He yanked it off and tossed it gracelessly away.

“I’m here to sing you some canticles.” Syrillon supplied, muffled by the wood of the door.

 _“Well,_ why didn’t you say so? Come right in.” Dorian stood from his bed and moved, somewhat frantically, to rifle through the material of his cloak. He snatched up the gift inside and then quickly relaxed into a lounging position

Syrillon looked just the same as he’d left him. Though, when the elf spotted _him?_ At once, his face lit up like the sun. It made him feel impossibly giddy and he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

“There you are. Had a meeting. Would’ve waited in here for you, but alas,” Syrillon supplied, trailing towards the bed. He crept onto the bedspread and came to pepper little kisses to Dorian’s cheek. “I’ve missed you. How was it?”

“They’re all at a loss without me,” Dorian replied, haughty, sinking into the warm and careful touch. “It’s a wonder how the Imperium is keeping afloat.”

“I’m sure,” Syrillon’s hands laid out flat on his chest, “did you see family at all?” Dorian’s smile quieted.

“No.” He replied, “I didn’t bother. I settled some of Alexius’s affairs and allowed Maevaris to take up the rest of my time.” The elf gave a small, mute nod.

“See anything especially shocking?”

“Well, naturally. Always.” Dorian, second-guessing himself, unveiled the gift in his hand. “Take this, for instance. Me, giving gifts? Scandalous.”

“What, you bought me something?” Syrillon took the offering in careful hands. It was a long, curved blade in a decorated wooden sheath. His thumb swiped along the raised carving, expression painted with awe.

“Don’t think I’m too out of sorts to forget about Wintersend.”

“You brat, you said you weren’t going to get anything!” Syrillon accused, almost flustered, holding the gift carefully in one hand as he gave Dorian’s shoulder a little shove. “How am I supposed to give you something more thoughtful than this? Fenedhis, you’re _such_ a keener--”

“You don’t _have_ to give me anything at all.”

“Like hell I don’t.” He tittered, pressing a kiss to the corner of Dorian’s mouth. “I already had something. Suppose I’ll be revising.”

“This is the part where I say something heart-wrenchingly saccharine and you fall for my wiles, but I’d very much appreciate it if you filled that part in for me,” the mage drawled, looping one lazy arm around Syrillon’s midsection. “The caravan ride here was absolutely dreadful.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” cheeky hands moved, slowed in their search for some kind of dismissal, to Dorian’s shoulders. Fingers dug into the material of his top, then pushed him gently to lay back. Little, welcoming kisses peppered along his face and neck, to where his collar then covered his skin. Hands pressed, firm, into his shoulders. His injured one ached sharply and Dorian couldn’t fight a pained hiss. At once, Syrillon pulled away.

“Are you alright?” He asked. With some measure of dread, Dorian prepared himself for the onslaught of questions he could feel arriving.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Didn’t sound fine. What was it?”

“Just a bruise, amatus. No need to fuss.”

“What’d you go and get bruised for?” There was a hint of concerned anticipation to it. He’d already been caught out, in one way or another.

“The night market is incredibly insular. People will push and shove for even the smallest things.” Syrillon, still straddling his hips, ghosted a careful hand at either shoulder. Dorian’s tense anticipation told him which one had the _‘just a bruise’._ He allowed the elf to undo his layers with careful fingers, trying to uncover the hurt as tentatively as impatience would allow. It came to his undershirt and he raised one arm at a time, unable to disguise the weakness in his limbs.

Warm, doting hands slid over his skin. They came to rest at his shoulder, where mottled black and purple made a defined, oddly-shaped mark. Syrillon wouldn’t recognize the smudged crest. Or, thankfully, the blade’s pommel that had created it. Tepid disappointment weathered the elf’s brow.

 _“Dorian,”_ he murmured, scolding, and the mage almost flinched. He’d promised he’d keep out of trouble, sure, but how was he meant to keep the trouble _away_ from himself? It was hardly his fault at all.

“For the record,” Dorian said, guilt rising, “I managed an _excellent_ parry. This was, unfortunately, part of the result.”

“Did you get hit anywhere else?” Syrillon asked, looking him over with something like doe-eyed concern. It felt both terrible and wonderful to be doted over.

“Just a few small cuts and bruises, most of them healed. As I said, amatus, there’s no need to fuss.”

“There’s plenty of reason. You didn’t strike first, did you?” Syrillon’s fingers prodded their way gently along the line of his collarbone, then down towards his sternum. “How’d you even get _into_ a fight, anyway?”

“It’s a long story. I’m positive your eyes would glaze over not halfway through,” Dorian replied, giving a wave as flippant as his tone. He moved to prop himself up more fully on his elbows. “What matters is that I’ve returned.” _Please stop asking,_ he said, more in his pursed lips than his words. Syrillon, getting the hint with some displeasure, took his hands back.

“And the other guy?”

“Probably in a ditch somewhere, I’d figure.” The elf let out a weak huff of a laugh.

“You were going’t go on hiding it, weren’t you?” He chided, one hand sliding back up Dorian’s sternum to eventually rest at his jaw. Syrillon dipped down to steal one sweet, lingering kiss. _Maker,_ he’d missed being kissed. He’d be weak in the knees if he wasn’t already laid out on his back.

“Have you been reading, like I told you to?” Dorian asked instead, trying to shift that light guilt onto the elf’s shoulders for a change. Syrillon put on a tiny, childish frown.

“No.” He answered, allowing the subject to change. “Not my fault, Josephine had me doing other things. Modelling for a salon outfit, and…stuff.”

“Oh, and _stuff.”_ Dorian lamented, “that sounds absolutely dreadful. Now, what would you have done if I’d have gifted you a book, rather than a charming way to cut someone into little pieces?”

“Honestly?” The tiny smile was back on Syrillon’s lips. Almost as an instinct, Dorian braced himself for something cloyingly sweet. “I’d want you to read it, either way. Everything sounds better when you say it.” Not as heart wrenching as he was anticipating, but still worth a roll of his eyes.

“Amatus--”

“See?” Syrillon interrupted, cheeky, letting out a long sigh, “I could melt, you calling me that. You’ve absolutely ruined me.” Dorian shook his head, in much the same overplayed fashion, though it was a bit more subdued this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters may slow to once-a-week updates from here on out, don't panic


	8. Antiva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See u next Sunday

The water washed over his feet, tangling in the sparse hair of his legs where his trouser cuffs had been rolled up enough to not meet the sea. He bent down, more on one leg than the other, and searched the drifting sand with his fingers. He worked a smoothed-out, long forgotten shell from the grasp of the pebbly sand. Then, his treasure seated in his palm, he waded out of the shallow water.

Dorian was a vague silhouette, a few dozen yards away from and above the elf. He tread slowly over the sand, bogged down in each step, until he reached the rocky face. With his treasure clutched tight in one hand, he scurried up along each broad, jagged foothold until he only had a short walk to where the Altus sat, book in hand, under the shade of a chestnut tree.

“I brought you a gift.” Syrillon greeted, sitting himself down on the stone bench beside the other man. Dorian startled an inch, looking between where the elf approached and where stairs lay on his other side. He set down his book, brow drawn in, and laid out his attention for Syrillon to take.

“I do love gifts.” The elf found his hand and, maneuvering it to be palm-up, he placed the smoothed shell into it. It glinted a shocking array of colours in the sunlight, all along defined parallel ridges. “Oh, joy,” Dorian chimed, though there was honest mirth in the way his eyes crinkled with his smile, “it’s not an insect.”

“I only did that _one_ time,” Syrillon whined, giving the mage’s arm a half-hearted smack. “Maker, you’ll never let me forget it. I said I was sorry.”

“Suppose you shouldn’t have done it, then.” Dorian ran his thumb over the ridges, studying the colours and the soft pink underside of the shell with interest. Syrillon propped his elbow up on the back of their stone seat, then leaned his chin upon the fist.

“Do you like it?” He asked, watching the mage with unrestrained delight. Dorian glanced up at him, unable to smooth out the smile threatening his lips.

“Of course I do.” He said, trapping the gift in his hand. “You could give me rubbish and I’d consider keeping it.”

“Well, aren’t you lucky that I find you the nicest-looking rubbish, then.”

“I certainly _am_ a lucky man.” Dorian pecked a thankful kiss to the elf’s temple and slipped the gift into his pocket for safe-keeping.

“Lunch?” Syrillon suggested, searching out a hand to tangle with his own. Dorian tucked his book under his arm and allowed the elf to tug him to his feet.

“Yes, alright,” he hummed.

-

He only realized he hadn’t been falling when he awoke, drenched in clammy sweat and the darkness of the bedroom, his breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. Warm, kind hands smoothed over his seizing chest. One gripped his shoulder, the other landed with fingers splayed at his upper back. The deafening chaos of white noise still rang in his mind. It took a few long moments to recognize the quiet, comforting murmurs in the otherwise silent bedroom. Syrillon pressed a hand to his mouth, swallowing down the threatening sting of bile in his throat. He fought to not close his eyes.

“I’m alright,” he whispered, weak, leaning into the warm body beside him. The Anchor’s light dimmed, no longer painting them a sickly greenish colour. He strained against the ache, too tired to push down the pain.

“What do you need?” Dorian asked, his voice a bleary murmur.

“Hold onto me,” the elf replied at a whisper, leaning more limply. Arms wrapped tight around him and he lifted a weak hand to hang from one of them. “Corypheus.” He murmured, partway to explanation, “and ‘is big, ugly fuckin’ face.”

“I see.” It was barely a whisper. Wind gently rattled their balcony doors, encroaching upon the growing lull. Syrillon fought to school his breath from ragged gasps, melting slowly into Dorian's arms. One minute passed, then two. His breaths evened out, but the memory of his gasping left his lungs burning. He was led, slow, to lie back down.

“Did I tell you I almost died?” Syrillon asked in a whisper, needing to fill the silence. Needing a distraction from the sights and sounds of his dream still playing in his mind.

“All due respect, my dear, you do that quite often.”

“Mm. Anyway, the dragon saved me. I tell you that?”

“Yes, I seem to recall this one. It dropped you off and you single-handedly saved the entire continent,” Dorian took in a long breath, something like a yawn, and tucked his head in close to the other man’s. Something to his voice was charmingly lazy. “It was all very gallant and impressive, et cetera. I know the rest quite well.”

“Never liked falling.” Syrillon murmured, latching onto the more particular part of the abridged story. “Can’t kill falling. Corypheus, I eviscerated; served him right. No way to scare off a tumble.”

“Suppose that’s your new enemy, then,” distantly, gulls cried past their balcony doors. The outside world stayed dark and hidden, held at bay by the stillness and comfort of their bedroom. “Gravity itself.”

“Suppose so, yeah.” Syrillon’s exhale mingled with the crunchy, textured sound of the bedsheets and pillows beneath them. His fingers slid over skin until his palm rested, gentle, atop where Dorian’s heart lay. He thought he could feel its beat beneath the skin, but it might’ve been a sleepy illusion.

“I knew I loved you then. Did you know that?” He asked, voice growing heavier. Dorian let out a hum he could feel through his fingertips.

“I had a feeling.”

“You did, did you?”

“Mm. You’re so incredibly saccharine, it was a hard thing _not_ to notice.” Dorian cleared his throat with a little cough and shifted, relaxing his head more against the bedding. Syrillon could catch the slightest glint of eyes in the darkness. He let out a quiet, weak laugh that was more a droopy-eyed smile than anything.

“I think… I think it really happened when we were in Emprise. D’you remember? I fucked my hands up and you read to me by the fire.”

“I recall.”

“I should give you more to read. You’ve got such a charming voice.” It was the sleep fogging his mind and eroding his filter, more than anything, that made him work up such compliments. But it wasn’t as if he’d had much of one to begin with. “You made my heart skip a beat, I swear it. And I haven’t gotten it back.” A lazy laugh moved between them, unsure of where it had begun.

“It was the Winter Palace, for me,” Dorian murmured. “It was terribly dramatic, don’t you think? All politics and fancy dress. Watching you run around, saving the day in such a charming costume.”

“I enjoyed our dance." Syrillon replied, a softer smile crossing his lips as he worked to recall the event. The balcony lit by moonlight and yellowish lanterns. Inquisition red and those eyes so blue-green it seemed like he was drowning. A warmth stirred in his chest at the phantom sound of their tired laughter, those months ago. "You lend yourself to the classic half-drunk, half-mad style I’m used to.” 

“Well, I’m honoured.” Dorian replied, shaking with a lazy chuckle of his own. It lingered in the stilled air and Syrillon let it echo in his sleepy mind like a song stuck on repeat. The world outside worked up to the barest hint of sun. Dawn would still be a few hours away.


	9. Antiva (End)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who started their sequel story??????? :)))

The world underneath the sheer, too-close ceiling of the bedsheets was cast in a hazy off-white as sunlight filtered, unabashed, through the thin material. Syrillon laid out lazily, curled to accommodate the man he’d slept next to, who was still heavy with his own slumber. The elf, one arm curled beneath his head, watched him with a measure of tender appreciation, unrestrained without an audience of any sort. Smiling to himself, he ran the pad of his thumb along the man’s jawline. That hand ghosted to the opposite cheek, then traced the line of his nose. It slid to his forehead, where it brushed back the unstyled fringe of dark brown-black hair. He shuffled in an inch closer and pressed a barely-there kiss to his cheek.

“Good morning,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. Dorian stayed still, eyes unopened, but let out a hum of acknowledgement.

“Morning already?” He asked in a slur, one lazy hand coming up to rub at his eyes. One of Syrillon found a handful of his shirt in which he wound his fingers.

“Mm. Breakfast? There’s that nice table and chairs out on the balcony.”

“In a bit,” Dorian replied. “I’d hate to move _too_ quickly.” Syrillon rolled to be partway atop him, chin pressing into his chest. He folded his arms beneath him so he might get a better view.

“Oh, of course. Would hate to spoil the holiday with haste.” So be it. He would be granted a bit longer for his sight-seeing.

-

“A toast.” Dorian said, raising his sparkling glass. The mid-morning sun caught it, casting mottled specks of light against the stark tablecloth. Syrillon set down his fork and knife and followed along.

“What for?”

“I can think of a number of things. To us, as always. To the Inquisition? To…”

“To you.” Syrillon said. “For staying by my side. And for being the greatest mage the Imperium has ever seen. They’re lucky you’ve got me to lean on, you could go all… _evil magister,_ otherwise. You’d know just how to end the world quick enough to not be stopped.”

“If you’re just trying to charm your way into bed with me, I’m afraid your plan is going off without a hitch.” Dorian murmured, their glasses meeting in a little _tink._ “Though I’d consider one revision.” He found the elf’s hand along the side of the table and together their fingers wound. Syrillon grinned toothily, as if it were the first time.

“I’ll consider it.”

 _“To you,”_ Dorian corrected, searching out Syrillon’s glass to give it another small tap. “For being my friend and confidant. I would be pleased to weather whatever comes next so long as I have you beside me. And I’ll need it, I’m quite certain.”

“You little imp,” Syrillon tittered, “I get any more lauded and my head’ll be too big for the crown I’m getting Dagna to make. _Then_ what will I wear to throw coins at the poor?” Dorian smothered his insolent laugh with a drink.


	10. Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian does some thonkin'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bonus chapter so I can hurry up and finish this collection so we can move onto the SEQUEL baby!! yeehaw!

Skyhold was bitterly cold, compared to their time spent on holiday. No more charming ocean scenery, humid climate or vivid sunsets. Dorian had been keeping to his chambers, more often than not. Perhaps he’d simply grown a bit jaded; trying and failing to make nice with the others who frequented the rotunda. He wasn’t being forced to make friends for the Inquisition’s benefit anymore and he had a perfectly fine desk in his own quarters: it seemed like an auspicious start to being a hermit.

Their holiday--or, rather, it _was_ a honeymoon, though he hadn’t quite grappled with the concept just yet--had felt like an absolute dream. Hardly any responsibility, floating in a bubble of warmth and harmless pleasure. He had his Inquisitor’s complete, undivided attention whenever he asked for it. _Oh,_ and he’d _asked._ There were no scouts of soldiers come barging in, so politely knocking and giving their I’m-sorry-m’lords and I-just-need-a-moment-m’lords. It was a month worth of pure selfishness and they’d both needed it.

Syrillon still searched him out. It was nice to know that that month hadn't tired him out of the Altus's presence. When he wasn’t cooped up in the war room or finishing paperwork of his own, he would come down to wherever Dorian was working away and sit himself nearby, enjoying the silent company. Dorian had started to bereave the departure of the “inner circle”, if only because there were fewer people to distract him from being productive, now. Vivienne might’ve invited him into her study for petit fours, to chat idly in their haughtiest voices about who-said-what-who-wore-what until she grew tired of him and sent him away. Varric would lighten his coinpurse or take his rings or his ego, leaving him enjoyably destitute for a few minutes before he inevitably gave anything not-coin back. Fuck, even Blackwall was good enough company once they’d both had a few drinks and the Warden could take a joke.

It wasn’t that he grew tired of the company still at Skyhold. Far from it! It was simply that it felt as it had before, in that first year, only with less entertainment to pass time between days. In a way, he was narrowly missing having a great evil to stamp out. Still, their Inquisitor stayed busy as if they’d never done that bit. It felt as if Dorian’s life was stagnant in comparison. He had Tevinter, yes, and he had other ways to still aid the operation, dull though it seemed. _Syrillon_ was the one being called away whenever they stole a moment alone. _Syrillon_ was the one with his life still tethered to the Inquisition and to Skyhold.

He’d asked to come to Tevinter with him, somewhere along the line. Maker knew Dorian could use more friends there. He bitterly wanted to say: _yes, of course, amatus. Please, be my guest,_ and then they could have themselves a slightly more precarious second honeymoon, assassins and all. That would be if Syrillon could _leave._ If the Inquisition and Skyhold wouldn’t crumble into little tiny pieces as soon as he stepped out.

That would be if Dorian felt comfortable dragging him into the conflict he’d left there: a game in which Syrillon held no investment but would share equal stakes nonetheless. He’d be a target just out of principle; being someone Dorian held dear. Assassins could leave the Imperium, but fighting the Inquisitor in his own territory was a greater risk.

That would be if Syrillon wouldn’t somehow finesse his way through; calling upon Comtesse Whatever’s first-cousin-twice-removed’s wife, who knew Lord Something-or-Other of Qarinus, who could mop the whole thing up. Some deep, uncomfortably jealous part of himself--one he’d rather not think about--worried that the elf could accomplish all of his goals for him in a matter of days. A proper Altus--a proper _magister,_ if ever that became a concern--would use someone like that as a tool. But was there nothing to be said for the satisfaction of it all? For making a well thought-out, strong foundation with one’s own hands?

He cast his eyes to where Syrillon peered out his bare archer’s slit of a window, watching something in the distance. He had that tiny, absent-minded smile. He’d be safer here, wouldn’t he? He’d keep things uncomplicated, wouldn’t he? Tomorrow was steadily approaching, his wagon still some twenty hours out. His bags laid packed beside the door, ready to be carried down to the gates. He set down his inking pen and closed the book whose writing had long since dried.

Syrillon was whistling; quiet, along with a song he must’ve heard in the distance. Dorian left his chair to be quickly entrapped in the winding of a long, silken favour around his waist. Syrillon, holding both ends of the bluish wrap, tugged him in to stand toe-to-toe. He continued to whistle and Dorian recognized one of the limited tavern songs. Hands took his own and he was led in a bare swaying.

“So,” Syrillon drawled, cutting off his song. He kept the mage herded in close by the silk in his hands. Dorian didn’t put up a fight against it. “We have the evening alone. I told Josephine to keep all my business away so I could see you off properly.”

“Did you, now?”

“Mmhm. I’m all yours, love.”

“What an enticing prospect,” Dorian drawled, “though… I _will_ be on a week-long carriage ride full of bumpy terrain. And sitting. Do be gentle with me.” Syrillon let out a boyish giggle.

“Don’t worry. I’ll save some for when you return; I’ve quite the idea for a welcome party.” The elf walked him backwards to sit on the bed. Then, quite a bit less seductive, Syrillon plopped down into a sit beside him. He wrestled for one of Dorian’s hands, which he trapped between both of his own.

“Did I ever tell you about the first time we met?” He asked. Dorian, watching him study his hand with some amusement, lolled his head to one side.

“No. Though, if you’ll recall, I was _also_ there the first time we met. A retelling isn’t especially necessary.”

“So you don’t want to know that I was a bit drunk when I met you?”

“You what?” Dorian asked in an abrupt laugh. Syrillon's smile was meek.

“Yeah. Bought the boys drinks after meeting Alexius. The swill they serve at the Gull--”

“Now, hold on. You’ve never taken the party for that sort of thing so long as _I’ve_ been around.”

“Haven’t needed to. We both drink too much already.” Dorian paused to weigh the reply.

“Even so, it’s the experience! Really, how am I supposed to consider myself _wooed_ if you've never done me the courtesy of... leerily staring at me down a bar, then buying me a tall glass of pond-water?” Syrillon’s expression warped to one of shock.

“Haven’t I?--” he considered the complaint. “--I… suppose I haven’t. Embarrassing. I’ll be remedying that.”

“Will that be worked into my welcoming party when I return?”

“If you behave while you're away.” Syrillon tittered, shuffling a bit closer, fit to crawl into the mage’s lap.


	11. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters, babyyy

Dorian hoisted up his bag with a grunt, displeased--though not surprised--that the scouts did a poor job of unloading his caravan this time round. About half his bags had been carted off somewhere unknown and he was left to carry the rest however he could manage: both hands, under his arms, over his shoulder, et cetera. It took some trying to get his chamber door open.

By the time he had, however, he was surprised to find his welcome party assembled. It was one person, at the moment, but one scantily clad enough that he hurried to kick the door closed at his back. He let out a laugh, pleasantly surprised.

“Welcome back.” Syrillon greeted, chin propped up on a fist. A familiar stretch of azure silk was the only thing giving him some small decency. The Tevinter-themed snake which coiled its way, crumpled, along the fabric made for perfectly sacreligious censorship. Dorian set his bags down near the foot of the bed, noting with some despair that his others were nowhere to be found, though he hadn’t the presence of mind to comment. They could be found some other time.

“Is this what you’ve been planning whilst I’ve been gone?” He asked, carefully slipping out of his travelling clothes. They were heavy with the smell of earth and damp and he’d need a bath before that left his hair, as well.

“More or less. Thought to invite a few others, but I figured I’d make that… a separate event.” Dorian let out a tired guffaw.

“Quite. I don’t think your advisors would take to being blinded.” Syrillon shifted to prop himself up on his back, careful to keep the favour as his meager covering; Maker forbid the gift be spoiled. There was that smile again; so bright despite  _ everything  _ and so sweet despite the way Syrillon was poised. Dorian had gotten better at hiding it, but that gaze--that  _ look _ that made him reconsider all those flippant jokes about his Inquisitor hiding away his long line of lovers--it still caught him off-guard, now and then. Especially when he’d only seen it in dreams for the past month.

“That one’ll go with your other gift.”

“Another one?” Dorian chimed, tossing his cloak in a heap onto his desk chair. He’d deal with it later. He sat upon the edge of the bed, playing coy for no other reason than to revel in the tiny frown he earned.  _ Oh,  _ and being tugged closer by that insistent pinch on the fabric of his sleeve. Feeling needed _ \--wanted,  _ even, if he was being arrogant--was both a rush and a kind reminder. He gave in, too needy for attention to bother making it anything more than a passing tease.

“Another one,” Syrillon repeated with a nod, “for your birthday. You’re so tricky, you know that? You’d make an absolute show of things if I forgot, but I already know what you’re about to say--” At the mention of the event, Dorian sank an inch, not yet realizing that was exactly what he  _ always  _ did. “-- _ don’t  _ remind me, amatus,” Syrillon imitated, a lopsided smile to his lips, “I  _ hate  _ feeling old. Why can’t I just age in silence? Really, what a trivial thing, a birthday party. Harumph!”

“Quite the impression. You’ve been practicing, I see.”

“Every day. I’ll get so good at it, you’ll be out of a job. I’d bicker back and forth with myself all day.” Dorian’s laugh was perhaps a bit too tight and melancholy at the odd, unlikely scenario. It wasn’t  _ that  _ particular idea, so much as the reminder of that ever-present doubt: it’ll end, won’t it? Someday, the Inquisitor would find someone who causes less trouble; someone more secure in themselves, who didn’t leave the bed empty every few months in pursuit of a dead-end goal--

\--Perhaps his last visit had worn on him more than he’d realized.

“Sorry.” Syrillon murmured, lips quirked into a tight, apologetic smile. His tells must’ve been getting more obvious. How had he even…? Dorian shook his head and brushed off the topic entirely. Now, more eager to move on, he climbed atop the bed on his knees and then slung one over the other side of Syrillon’s two legs. He straddled there, not quite sitting back where the elf’s thighs met his kneecaps. A melodramatic sigh passed through his chest in a gust, one parchment-worn hand sliding up along that soft, uneven skin between the elf’s thighs.

“Happy birthday, by the way. You’re finally… what? Twenty-three?”

“Sure.” Dorian huffed, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, I’m so glad. Would be a shame if the cake said the wrong number.” The mage shuffled up, straddling a little higher. His brows quirked, though his eyes stayed on where his fingers still ghosted over skin.

“There’s a cake?”

“Mhm. From Val Royeaux. Josephine picked it, so if it tastes bad, just pretend, alright?”

“As per the usual,” Dorian hummed, the tips of his fingers trailing up over the limited, loose fabric. Syrillon was tense but smiling beneath him, careful to not flinch or jerk when he was touched ever so slightly. “Is there anything else I ought to act pleasantly surprised for?”

“Sera drew you something. I only know because she asked me what your favourite things to  _ look at  _ are. We’ll have to see if she drew piles of gold, me, or smelly flowers. I also suggested  _ gauche Orlesian fashion  _ but she just pulled a face and walked off, so my bet’s not on that one.”

_ “Right.”  _ Dorian murmured, applying a more even pressure to the flesh outlined beneath the silk. Syrillon took in a tight hiss that turned to a quiet laugh. It was that honest, sweet laughter that made their sex life  _ so  _ much more worthwhile. A dalliance was a dalliance, but Dorian had never been with anyone else who’d try so earnestly to make him smile, then giggle, and then leave them both wailing with laughter while bare as newborns. It was a peculiarly sweet thing.

“Not sure what Bull’s planning, but you know him. It’ll be something inappropriate. Cullen’ll laugh, ‘cause he’s twelve.” Syrillon watched him with his head tilted, relaxing into the more regular friction of a palm barely moving atop his thin cloth covering. His hips tilted up, quietly asking for more, but still he demanded nothing. Tensely, he stayed where he was, though those smiling eyes were a  _ bit  _ more beseeching. Needy, even. Dorian gave a small squeeze through the cloth and revelled in the silent gasp he earned.

“Now, enough dawdling. What’d you get me?” Dorian tried. Two hands slid up his chest, bundling his shirt, until they came to cup his cheeks. Syrillon curled up to press a kiss to his lips.

“Something special. I even asked Mae for a bit of insight.”

“What?” Dorian squawked, quietly suspicious. The smile on his lips as they met in another kiss dulled the tone. “You two working behind my back is quite the worrisome prospect.”

“I’ll bet.” Syrillon’s fingers wound in a fistful of the mage’s shirt, pulling him in closer. “Now, don’t let me forget,” he murmured, “I still need to buy you that drink.”

“A  _ third  _ gift? Why, you’re spoiling me rotten.”

“Treat me nicely and you might get a fourth.” Deft, curious hands slid the silk wrap free, eager to explore the skin beneath.


	12. Crêpes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, welcome to me Rushing. One more chapter of this and then it's sequel time!!

Dorian let out a long-winded sigh and crossed his arms poutily over his chest. He fought to not turn around, lest it be considered admitting defeat.

“Do you want help?” Syrillon asked, his cheek squished against his hand where he leaned upon it, a few scant strides away, sitting once again at the wood counter of the kitchens. The cooks had been given a break for the hour, which gave them plenty of time for a last-ditch effort. For Dorian, it was a half-hearted attempt at earning back some pride, which he was not at all confident would happen.

Dorian’s response was a meekly frustrated noise. He stared gloomily at the doughy concoction sizzling away in the pan, feeling incredibly sorry for himself. Why did he have to go and fall for the most  _ domestic  _ man he’d ever met? If he’d gone for someone who matched his weaknesses, they could be useless and stagnant together. Now? Self-improvement! Ridiculous.

The sound of footsteps started behind him. Two, three, then the Inquisitor was at his back. He peered over his shoulder at the pan, one hand come to rest at Dorian’s upper arm.

“Come, now. That’s not so bad. Just need to flip it.”

“That’s rather the part I’m dreadful at,” Dorian murmured, letting out a small sigh. The tightly-coiled, anxious feeling of worry--though not quite worry?--bundled in his chest. It was so infantile; dreading being unpracticed in something, as if his father would step out from behind the shelf of bagged onions to give him that unimpressed once-over.  _ Surprise, Dorian! Your failures are on full display! _

“Oh, it’s alright, love,” Syrillon soothed--perhaps he could taste the dreary frustration, or some such nonsense--as his arms snaked around him, plucking up a rag with which he gripped the iron skillet. He put his hand atop Dorian’s where he held his utensil. Then, carefully, his head laid on the mage’s shoulder where he could watch, he coaxed him through a gentle, roundabout flick of the pan. The contents sailed up a few inches and turned face-down in the pan with the help of the utensil. The cooked side was nearly black from the heat, but it was showing! It had hardly even fallen apart.

_ “Ya-ay,”  _ Syrillon chimed at his back, stepping away to abandon the role of puppeteer. “You’ll get it, I know you will. You’re good at everything; next thing I know, you’ll be a professional. I’ll have nothing on you.” Dorian’s scoff was weak and barely there. The teasing made him feel a bit less quietly wound-up, at least.

“What, and surpass you as the currently-reigning champion of homemaking? Perish the thought! Your reputation would be ruined.”

“I’m not saying  _ that,”  _ Syrillon chuckled, “really, how arrogant. You? Besting me?  _ Please.  _ You couldn’t even win out in a fistfight.”

“That’s a  _ complete  _ non-sequitur--”

“See? That’s what I mean. That attitude’s what’s keeping you from being the champion. True homemakers solve problems with their fists.” Dorian, shaking his head, waved off the argument.

“Whatever,” he murmured, abandoning the subject where it lay. “Is this finished?” He made a vague gesture for the sad crepe still cooking over the flame. Syrillon perked up and, giving a shrug, took up the pan to empty it out onto a nearby plate. The other side was not so blackened. Still, it wasn’t quite edible.

“Time for another!” The elf chimed, putting on a cheerful smile. He waved for Dorian to take his place and he did so, albeit with a long-suffering sigh. Syrillon leaned back against the countertop, watching the man with a fond smile. “Suppose we could put a filling in this one. I’m thinking… hollyhocks. Heard we got some in from Orlais the other day.”

“Perhaps we could do rashvine instead. A painful, bitter end for such a sad little creation.” Dorian said, carefully dropping a bit of batter into the skillet. He stepped away to avoid the spitting once it began cooking away.

“A bit macabre.”

“Yet still fitting.” Syrillon made an impartial gesture, allowing him the grumpy joke.

“Should’ve considered that back then, you know. Crepes would’ve made it go down easier.” It was a facetious murmur, for the most part, but as soon as  _ back then  _ was mentioned, Dorian let out an exhausted groan.

_ “Don’t  _ even mention it.” He hissed, “I’ve still not forgiven you for that…  _ rubbish.” _ Syrillon looked down, scolded, and pursed away an involuntary smile. It was a childish  _ Ooh, I’m in trouble  _ sort of habit he hadn’t yet broken.

“Sorry.” He said, coughing to clear his throat and hide away that reaction. He glanced up when Dorian turned back to the skillet. He seemed to flounder before, possessed by bluster, he went to flip the contents of it. It landed with a pleasant sound cleanly on its back. Syrillon peeked around to watch, letting out a victorious cheer for him. Dorian, breathing a sigh of relief, turned to face the elf and provide a showy bow.

“Incredible,” Syrillon drawled, providing rapturous applause entirely on his own, “I knew you could do it. Can I get your autograph?”

_ “Oh,  _ alright,” Dorian said, letting out another, more melodramatic sigh. “I suppose.”


	13. Goodbye

There was a gentle shaking on his shoulder. Then, with a start, Dorian snapped awake. At once, he was smothered by the quiet of Syrillon’s chambers, as well as the soft greeting that followed.

“Morning,” the elf said, voice hoarse with sleep. “C’mon, get up, I want to show you something.” It didn’t exactly leave room for argument; Syrillon was already slipping out of the bed, taking all the warmth with him. Dorian rubbed groggily at his eyes and then followed, taking one of the blankets along with him to wear like the robe of an emperor.

The balcony doors opened with a stiff click. The world outside was flooded with stark burnt orange light. The sun was just a tiny streak of light behind the far-off mountain range, hardly a soul seeming to stir in the castle below. Syrillon huddled beside him, watching the sunrise with a hand on his arm.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” The elf asked. Dorian, distracted from his wistful watching, looked towards the glowing sky. He gave a quiet, tired hum of agreement. He glanced at the man beside him once more, sleep hanging in his eyes. He was making it more difficult to leave, the brat. How was he supposed to see the sunrise alone, now?

“You’ll have to get a portrait done and send it to me,” Syrillon informed, capturing Dorian’s arm more and more within his grip. “I wouldn’t want to forget what you look like.”

“Oh, certainly. Can’t have that.” Dorian let out one long, sleep-swaddled sigh and leaned more heavily against the man beside him.

“You can’t go marrying anyone else out there, neither.” Syrillon said, a lazy smile crossing his lips, “or, at least if you do, I want’a be invited to the ceremony. Steal all the petit fours and the dinner rolls, make it worth my while.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And you can’t get rid of the mustache. That’s clownery I’ll not be putting up with.”

_ “Alright.” _

“And…” Syrillon trailed off, looking a bit more thoughtful. His eyes glazed, looking more into the sleepy middle-distance. “...come back to me safe, alright?” Fingers pressed, more firm, into Dorian’s forearm. He turned, biting hard on the inside of his lip, to wrap the elf up in a proper hug.

He would be alright. The trip was born of a long put-off necessity, and it would be longer than the others, but it would end. Dorian was not some child, too needy to step away from the warmth and security of caring arms long enough to attend to his business. He would go home, for a time, but Syrillon would stay where he was. Distance and time  _ wouldn’t  _ unwork the elf from his grasp, no matter how many what-ifs he worked up in the back of his mind.

The thing that bothered him, more than anything else, was not his own need. He might ache, or feel sickly and lonesome, but it was  _ Syrillon  _ being alone, more often than not, that came to mind.  _ What if the anchor gets worse?  _ Or,  _ what if he has a nightmare and I’m not there?  _ Anxieties of things he couldn’t control, which rationality told him he shouldn’t expend the energy to worry over. They might happen, or they might not. If they did? Syrillon, as much as he might choose to forget, was independent. A grown adult, capable of being alone and handling his own problems. Still, unease roiled in his gut.

He was becoming such an anxious fusspot. Syrillon was doing well; he’d grown no worse from the anchor in the past months, and though he’d still had nightmares, they were few enough. And there would be letters! It was no replacement for honest company, but it wasn’t as if they’d never hear from one another again. He’d be given Syrillon’s poor jokes, as opposed to his smile, but it would have to do. It was a balance of  _ responsibility  _ and  _ comfort,  _ which, in a world so chaotic, they were lucky to manage at all.

He finally released the elf from his arms and pressed a kiss to his head. It was only a few months. He’d mope, but he’d survive. He tried to be positive: time apart would surely make their next meeting sweeter. Hopefully.  _ So long as we have another at all-- _

“Quit frowning,” Syrillon murmured, cupping his stubbly cheek in his warm palm, “it looks terrible on you.” Skipping to another subject, Dorian searched out that scrunch in the elf’s nose which came each time he teased.

“Will I find half my wardrobe missing once I return?” He asked, “if last time is anything to go on.”  _ There  _ it was. Syrillon’s face wound up in something partway indignant, followed by a roll of his eyes.

“If you let me tag along, I wouldn’t  _ have  _ to steal half your shirts.” He made a look of consideration, “though, if I’m honest, it might happen anyway.” Dorian made a long sound of wry agreement, as if to say  _ that’s exactly what I mean. _

“I’m still missing two, you know.”

“You have no way to prove that’s my fault. I gave them all back. I swear.” Syrillon gestured to his left hand. “On my honour.” Dorian, shaking his head, moved a few steps back towards the bedroom.

“I can’t fathom what you’d need them for, aside from impersonating me. But then, I don’t think that would work. You’re not tall enough.” Syrillon trailed along behind him, leaving the balcony doors open in his wake.

“As if you don’t wear those funny shoes to look taller,” he muttered, a bit more insolent. Then, clearing his throat, “I don’t  _ wear  _ them, anyway. I just… keep them around.”

“Like a centrepiece?” Dorian hopped back into the bed, wrestling to sit up against the mound of pillows more on the right side than the left. “Welcome to Skyhold, here you’ll see the balled-up tunic of my wonderful, intelligent, handsome--”

“Mm. Humble.” Syrillon crawled, a bit gentler, to sit at his blanket-wrapped side.

“-- _ Humble,  _ passionate, refined husband. Please give a monetary donation before you grovel at my feet.”

“I’ll have to bring that up with Josephine,” Syrillon said, leaning back on his hands.

“What, because I’m bullying you?”

“Because it’s a good idea. No-one  _ pays  _ to grovel around here. It’s ridiculous; what a bunch of loafs.” He let out a long sigh, “and if I was to tell  _ anyone  _ about your ribbing, it’d be the Maker himself. If I’m to tattle, I’m doing it to the best.” Dorian gasped, disingenuous.

“You rotten little meddler. I had sainthood set up before this, and now you’re telling me you’re about to ruin it?”

“Mm. That’s what you get,” Syrillon drawled, pointing at himself and mouthing a  _ ‘holy’.  _ Then, shuffling in a bit closer, he wormed his way into the blanket alongside the mage. “Do you  _ really  _ want to know what I keep them for?” He asked, “the shirts.”

“I suppose. There’s no blood stains or holes chewed into them, so it’s nothing too embarrassing, I’d think.”

“They’re comforting. Smells like your cologne and I need that, sometimes.” Dorian paused, buffering for a moment. “If… I feel lonely, or I need to calm down. It’s good.” He weighed the words, unsure of what to say. How long would it take him to get used to such casual…  _ this?  _ It had been years already, but how many more?

“I see.” He said, trying to play it off as if he wouldn’t think about it, mooning, later on. “Well, in that case, take as many as you like. I trust you’ll take care of them.”

“Always,” Syrillon replied, tucking himself in tight beside him. The orange glow of sunrise started to fade as the light of day took its place. The minutes and hours ticked down towards his departure. Dorian shuffled to sit a bit lower, enjoying the feeling of warm, secure arms wrapped around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9/19/2020: This is the end of these short stories! More chapters may be added in the middle, but for now, I'll be posting the Trespasser sequel to A Sure Thing. It's the next part of this series. Thank you for reading! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment letting me know your thinkies :)


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